Chapter 4
4. Chapter 4
It was as he was brushing his teeth the next day that he realized how out of character it was for him to say those things to Granger. But it had felt so good. Even if he was drunk, even if it wasn’t planned. Even if she rejected his apologies over and over again, he found such peace in actually saying those things he otherwise would not have confessed.
It was liberating, like breathing deeply and filling his lungs with pure air after being in a moldy room for too long. He had held the weight of his reputation his entire life, and now that didn’t matter, that said reputation was destroyed, he felt free.
The lightness in his chest was only diminished by the burden of loneliness. She wouldn’t speak to him, and even if she did it was crisp, like she was holding herself back from lashing out.
Draco’s days were long and boring, he missed his magic and he hated that the only reminder of it he had was the ugly trace of the Dark Mark.
The first times he felt the burning of the Dark Lord summoning him were excruciating. After Dumbledore died and Draco went on the run, the Dark Lord used to called to him every day -sometimes even twice a day, and although this had subsided after a month, the lost of frequency didn’t mean a lack of intent from the Dark Lord. Draco suspected he had stoped caring about finding him and just wanted to torture him sporadically.
This led him to ask the elves for a bottle of firewhiskey to muffle the pain, which led him to confess a small truth to Granger, which he decided he didn’t regret. He was sick of feeling tormented, of feeling trapped in the person he was sculpted to be. He decided Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be mean to Hermione Granger. He decided Draco Malfoy wouldn’t say the word Mudblood again. He would relearn whatever he had to relearn to never be that person again.
He decided he would befriend her. Even if she didn’t want to, he would be her friend even if she wasn’t his. Fuck his reputation, fuck his family, fuck tradition and blood purity and wealth. He’d been more at peace locked away with a mudblood than with those wizards and witches who were supposedly superior to her.
He was beyond caring about any of the things he used to care about. His parents? They were so consumed by what they believed to be right that they let a madman put him on a suicidal mission and torture him in his own home. Besides, who would Granger tell? Mcgonagall? Potter and the Weasel? He doubted anyone else would be informed of his whereabouts, and even if she told the whole world, he had nothing to loose. Every aspect of his life was destroyed, not a single thing he thought he knew mattered anymore. No matter which side won the war, he would be looked down on by both. He didn’t care if the world didn’t accept his redemption, he would chase it nonetheless.
But he would have to do it from a room at Gryffindoor Tower, alone and ignored by his hostess. Luckily for him she had been kind enough to leave the bookshelfs unwarded. Also, he discovered he was allowed to call and elve and ask for -almost- everything he wanted. Firewhiskey had not been his first request: he had asked for new clothes that were most of his liking, his favorite cologne, new sheets and sweets. So he decided he would ask for a piano as soon as he got dressed, even if he had nowhere to go and no-one to see, because he still was a Malfoy through and through, even if he was a disinherited one. And he had nothing better to do. Or nothing to do at all.
When Granger arrived that evening, he was assembling a rather complex puzzle that he had found stored on her bookshelf. She looked so worn down, so tired. He often wondered what was happening to her, obviously, there was a war where her blood alone put her at risk, and her friends were in danger, but she has always seem so alive before. It was such a hash contrast from the girl that was now leaving her satchel on her desk looking so defeated. She was a hard girl to bring down (he had tried), and she had proved time and time again that circumstances or people’s reception to her bold personality were not enough to topple her.
“What the fuck?” So she had noticed the beautiful wall piano elegantly placed on his side of the room.
“Do you play?”
She hesitated slightly, her demeanor showcasing just how little energy she had left, how her fire was slowly fading into a sparkle that would soon evaporate completely. “Yes, my father taught me”. She sounded tired, like she didn’t even have energy to reject his conversation or feel offended anymore.
Draco found himself suddenly intrigued by her. She seemed to know so many things, he wanted to know how a child with a muggle life would learn how to do things that his parents paid tutors to teach him.
“I asked the elves to bring it here, I love to play. It actually was one of the only classes I never wanted to miss as a kid. Everything else was so dreadful, but playing was so calming”. He didn’t look up from his puzzle. It was staring to grow on him, rambling. He’d always been pushed to be perfect, pristine. To say what was expected in an eloquent manner. Rumbling and talking about nonsense wasn’t something he was used to, and it felt so ordinary, so natural. Like he was loosening the tight strings that tied him to high society. “I’ve missed it so much, and I have so much free time, I thought maybe I’d play while you’re gone”.
She was sitting on the floor with her back rested on her bed, mirroring the way he was positioned. “You can play while I’m here too”, she smiled a little, “only if you’re good though”.
Draco took a minute to analyze he. She was so worn down, as if she gave up pretending she was disappointed and was showing what hid underneath a mask. As if she’d been holding herself together and was finally letting go.
He got up, leaving his puzzle behind, and played a soft ballad, one of his favorites, the one that his mother would play for him when he couldn’t sleep.